If I Die Before I Wake
by SongBirdie
Summary: If this was just a dream, if she really wasn't here, well, she might as well say these things anyway. Different version of Reunion. Set in Season 7. Written for BlackSwan in the NFA Haiti Auction. Prompt; Giva, Safe/Not your fault.


**If I Die Before I Wake…**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own **NCIS**; it is the property of its respective creators.

Thank you to Liz, (_Augrey07_), for beta-reading my story!

**Author's Note**: This story was written for **BlackSwan **in the NFA Haiti Auction.

She asked for a Giva story, set in season 7. Any relationship but Father/Daughter.

I choose to merge two of the prompts she gave me, and this is a different version of the confrontation from _Reunion_.

**Prompts**: _safe__** /**_ _not your fault_. **Word Count**: 1,564. I hope you like this, Nat!

This story is the **3rd place winner of **_**Outstanding Het Romance: (F7-F15) Other Male/Female (Ziva/Gibbs)**_ _in the **August 2010 NFA Hinky Awards**_

* * *

"Drip." "Drop."

"Drip." "Drop."

She had been listening to the leak near her worn, lumpy, Navy Lodgings' bed for over five hours. 2:56 a.m. stared her in the face. The two flashing dots flickered in and out of sight, reminding her that time was moving.

If you're not there to see a clock, and there's never anything but darkness, how can one be sure time is still churning forward? She wondered. By the fact it hurts to breathe? But pain means you're still alive. By the fact you're still breathing at all?

Or, when you're sure it's all just some form of torture, and you must be in hell, there are footsteps outside the door. Your breath gets caught in your throat, your hands sweat, and when you hear the locks being undone on the other side of your prison, it swings open, blinding your eyes from their everlasting darkness. You let yourself believe he has come at last, he's here to save you, take you in his arms, and take the pain away.

The light from the outside will no longer feel like the sun exploding in your head, and your heart slams in your chest, because it's not him, and it will never be him.

And when Saleem grins that sick grin of his at you, and his whispers softly in your ear, gently, mocking the loving action of when a lover would do the same, your heart squeezes tightly, and guilt rises like vomit. You both know soon, either you will break or he'll grow tired of your defiance.

"They're not coming to rescue you. You're all alone. You'll die, alone."

He's right. She'll wake up from this fever induced dream soon enough, if she wakes at all, and she'll be back there, far from the Navy Lodgings, far from NCIS, far from the team, but most of all, far from him.

2:57 a.m. flashes at her and she thinks if this is some sort of last wish, of what could have been, before my death, I'll make the most of it.

She slides up, not making a sound, and changes from the long cotton pajamas Abby had brought her, into a turtleneck and pants. The turtleneck has long sleeves, and a high collar. The pants cover her from above her hips down to her ankles. You can't see anything underneath, and she's glad.

There's no reason for him to have to see the marks she received for her defiance, the scaring punishments that cling to her skin, and stain her soul.

She slips her feet into sandals and for some unexplainable reason, one she can't fathom, wiggles her toes like she did as a child on her rare visits to the ocean. No water flows over them now, just air. That is almost as good.

She takes the keys for the car NCIS is lending her, and the keys to get back in here. Somehow, she doubts he'll want her there long. She shakes her head. It's just a dream. She chooses not to dwell on why this fills her with sadness.

She steps out of her containment, locking the door behind her, though there is nothing of any value or reason to steal. She bids the door a last glance, squares her shoulders and turns to go to him.

Dream that this may be, but she'll give her last words to him with a bang. Just like she did with everything in her life.

As she walks down the hall, there is a hint of a smile on her face.

* * *

"Bang." "Whoosh." Catch.

"Bang." Whoosh." Catch.

The sound of a ball hitting the wall echoes in the newly emptied room. He'd much prefer the sound of wood being sanded to his will, but this will have to do.

The bottle of bourbon sits next to him, within easy reach. He ignores the stubborn little voice in his head that no amount of alcohol can drown out. He pretends not to hear its whispers of how he doesn't deserve oblivion. She was safe, here in D.C., home.

He stares at the bloodstain on his basement floor. He never tried to hide it. It was proof of a battle won, his opponent dead, his blood marking the spot.

She rarely came down here. While it is a mark of triumph to him, it was a reminder of bitterness, pain, and betrayal to her.

The ball rolls away, breaking its steady stream of throw, hit, and catch. The thoughts he has pushed back, again and again, break free.

That bloodstain on the floorboards is why she had his trust. Was it pretend? Did she set it up to earn his trust, and kill an ally gone rogue? Was it an act of courage and bravery? Or a soldier following their commander's order to kill?

He doesn't know. If he ever did at all. That, more than her lies, his silence, those four horrible months, is what keeps him up at night. Alone. His bed empty on one side, his heart frozen.

He reaches for his bourbon, and freezes. He is not alone. His eyes go to his gun, on the tool table. So close, yet so far. The gaze on him does not waver. He tries to think of how to move those few feet, when the two words freeze him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

The drive over was quiet. She saw no one and nothing. She parked surprisingly close to the curb, she locked the door, and she walked. The yard and house look the same. They may be. The person living here, though, is not.

The door, not surprisingly, was unlocked. The house was neat. She walked over to the door of the basement. It was open. She stepped onto the landing, and all of what was on her mind in that second, the patch of weeds near the door, the two new holes in the wall, the lack of food in the kitchen, blinked away, like they had never been there at all.

There was only him. In a shirt and sweats, his back to her, she blurted out what she had needed to say all these months. Now, if her body gave out, if this was truly all a dream, she had said it. It was all she could do.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes meet. His stormy blue to her dark brown. She sees his pain, confusion, and uncertainty. He sees her regret, anger, and gut-wrenching despair. Her eyes fill up with tears, and she tries to blink them back. He moves to go to her. She puts up her hand to stop him. She looks away from his piercing eyes.

"I need to tell you some things. If you still want to comfort me after, you can."

Her eyes land on the bloodstain on the floorboards. He sees an emotion cross her face that he can't name, but knows intimately.

"I love you. And what my mother used to say to me, that we always hurt the ones we love, makes so much more sense when I'm with you."

She walks over to his tool table and runs her hands over the wood.

"I shot Ari here. Ari, my protector, my hero. He was that once. The man I shot had no soul. There was nothing in his eyes."

She turns to look him in the eye.

"I did have orders to shot him, orders to gain your trust. I wasn't going to do it. I was going to knock you out, and run with him. But, his eyes. They told me there was nothing left to save. Except you. So I did."

She steps toward him, than turns away.

"Seeing Michel die, it made something I'd known, a truth I did not want to face, impossible to ignore any longer. There are certain things in this world, if you touch them, if they trap you in their web, they will take your life from you. My father was one of those things. So, I made a choice. I would not let the poison any nearer to you than it already was. So, I left."

She turns towards him again. He can't see her eyes; they're closed, as if remembering.

"I had good intentions, but they lead to hell. All I could think of there was that I loved you, and I should have let you choose how you would react to the poison. So, Gibbs, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the pain I caused you, I'm sorry if you doubted my feelings for you. They were real. Always. "

She opens her eyes, and walks toward him. She stops in front of him, and waits. He looks back at her, into her eyes, wary as they are.

Than, his lips are on hers, pushing, tasting, demanding. He tastes salt, tears, his or hers, he knows not. He stops for air, and she leans into his arms. The wounds are not gone, they never will be. But, for now, she lets herself realize this is real. He feels her arms around him. They take comfort in each other's embrace. Safe.

* * *

**Comments and questions welcome!**


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